Perfect
by Miss Bellatrix
Summary: The 'bond' between father and son takes a twisted turn for the worse. Complete ficlet


Author: Miss Bellatrix

Date: 15/09/03

A/N: As always, review! You all have the idea planted in your mind!

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Perfect. 

Flawless. 

Desirable.  
  
I know of your envy. You want me. You want to _be_ me. You want to know what it feels like to look into the mirror and see perfect beauty, faultless flawlessness. You yearn to see crystal blue eyes stare back at you while you comb back the pale, white-blonde locks of hair. You desire to see that beautiful white skin exposed as you dress for the day, or undress for the night. You would kill to hear that sultry voice come from _your_ throat, instead of mine.  
  
Being the semi-intelligent being you are, you have realized that this can only be a fantasy of yours. You can _never_ be me. I will always be perfect. I will _always_ be above you.   
  
That is why you did what you did, is it not? I brought out the truth in words; in a letter to you left on your study table and it pained you so much that you took revenge. First on Narcissa, you broke her wrist and her heart.  You took shameless advantage of me and my innocence, created havoc with my self-esteem, abused me until I was worthless to anyone but you. You wanted it that way, for me to only belong to you. For I am your son, and your heir. Noone is good enough for me in your eyes, and I will never be allowed to love another. Your footsteps preceded you by mere seconds, and you entered my room in the dead of night, eyes blazing from the letter I wrote and left for you to find.   
  
I sat there, against the black carved headboard and you simply stood there, gazing down at your only heir. Then as quickly as you had come, you struck. I first felt the blow to my head. Ah, you are using that cane of yours I see. Blow after blow, I feel the bruises beginning to form on my arms, legs, stomach. There is a loud, resounding slap, then a painful sting. You never slapped my face before. Always on other parts of my body, the parts that can be easily covered by clothing and not seen.   
  
My hand goes to cover the quickly reddening and bruising cheek, is caught by your own and slammed heavily against the cast-iron frame of my bed. My eyes look up, searching for yours in the panic and flurry of pain coursing through my body. You grab my silver-blond hair, much like your own, and toss me painfully to the floor, nearly throwing me across the room in the process. I'm smaller than you, by a few centimetres at least. What is your plan? The collar of my robe rips violently and your fingernails graze my skin harshly, leaving stark red lines on my throat as you pick me up and throw me on the bed again, against the headboard. You stressed the delicate material too much, and it has torn. It doesn't matter, as you'll just replace the robes anyway. You always have, after something like this. I whimper quietly against your vicious touch and I struggle a little, but no tears fall. 

A Malfoy never cries. 

I watch you warily, in a quiet moment as you reflect on what you've just done. 

The anger surfaces again, and you grab me and fling me against the cast-iron frame of my bed, not caring for the cry of pain you receive. Skin blisters, hair breaks, muscles and tendons tear…but you care for nothing about me. The abuse hits me in torrents, and I give up under your strength. You carry 18 years more than I, and you have the strength that proves it. Physically, you abuse me. Mentally, you tear me up inside so badly that I can't even maintain a relationship with another person in my life. Noone is good enough, not for your son. Noone- whether they are pureblood, half-blood, or god forbid, muggle or mudblood. My mind is in tatters, my soul tarnished, along with the bruises across the rest of my physical flesh. Yet you walk away each day from this without a scratch on your body, or a wound in your spirit.   
  
I was perfect. 

I was pure.   
  
Yes, we share similar characteristics. The silver hair and blue eyes. Your hair is long, easily tangled, and almost brittle in your age. Mine, on the other hand, is short and kept in strict style throughout the day. Your eyes have dulled, from a blue to almost smoky silver. My crystal blue eyes greet and destroy all at once, one of my best assets. You may have an advantage of height on me, but I have the muscle of numerous Quidditch practices, yet I retain that elegant beauty, the lust of many. My voice is seductive, sultry if I wish it to be. Yours is rough with anger, almost gruff. Rough with the abuse of many years, assaulted by fire whiskey and death eaters meetings.   
  
You mumble something about angels belonging in heaven, not on earth. I barely have time to comprehend this as you hit me forcefully underneath my chin, sending my head flying backwards into the headboard. No preparation. No hesitation. No reaction on your face as I cry out in pain again. This is a side of you I certainly have seen before, but have never wished to. I look up, and our eyes meet for the first time since you entered the room. Unwillingly, my eyes fill up with humiliated tears, and my head is jarred against the bed wantonly as a punishment of my weakness. I may be an angel, but I will remain on earth for the rest of my life. You've ripped off my wings and broken my spirit.  
  
There is no love, no admiration, no other emotion but anger, and I expected nothing less. We are, after all, the Malfoy family.    
  
I was born your son, your only heir. When I was young, you were my hero. My father, the strong, stable, silent one. The one who disappeared all-day and only returned at night for dinner. I eagerly strived to be good in your eyes. I was perfect. You told me so.   
  
You moulded me into the being I am today. Narcissa told me I was flawless in every aspect, but I never believed her. You were what mattered, your opinion was all that counted. I was to never answer to anyone, yet forced to answer to you. I am a pureblood, and a Malfoy.   
  
You said I was perfect. I believed you, and you took advantage of that. You were determined to drag me down to your level, to your hell. You wanted, no, you _needed_, to prove to yourself that I was not perfect, that _you_ were. But you weren't, and even deep in your own heart you realised that.  
  
Yes, I'm sure you're remembering everything you've ever done to me. I hope you feel everything I felt. You never took the time to listen to me, or even see what you were doing to me, too determined were you to take what you wanted whenever you wanted. I was in pain, emotional pain. I was drowning, and you never lifted a finger to save me.

  
You said I was perfect. 

You said I was pure.   
  
You lied, father.

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